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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23222710">fault lines tremble</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/haloud/pseuds/haloud'>haloud</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Roswell New Mexico (TV 2019)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Claustrophobia, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, No Character Death, Rescue, Trapped In A Collapsed Building, character injury, that trope where Alex is hurt and Michael's powers go haywire</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-03-20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-03-20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 11:26:47</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,530</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23222710</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/haloud/pseuds/haloud</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>It was supposed to be routine. Nothing like Caulfield. Alex did his homework, did all the surveillance, knew about the underground lab full of pet projects done by a Martine Anderson, alias Jane Holden. But still none of his scouting revealed that the place was rigged to explode. Not until it was too late.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Michael Guerin/Alex Manes</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>205</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>fault lines tremble</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>When Michael comes to Alex, he has the earth all over him. He has trails of blood, dried and flaking, coming from his nose, his mouth, his ears. He reaches for Alex with both hands, ten fingers, broken nails and savaged skin worn almost down to bone. And Alex blinks dust from his dry and weakened eyes, blinks right into the first light he’s seen in days, and doesn’t, can’t understand, not at first, what he’s seeing, if it’s real, until Michael’s mouth opens and he whispers <em>Alex.</em></p><p>It was supposed to be routine. Nothing like Caulfield. Alex did his <em>homework, </em>did all the surveillance, knew about the underground lab full of pet projects done by a Martine Anderson, alias Jane Holden. But still none of his scouting revealed that the place was rigged to explode. Not until it was too late.</p><p>And after too late, he’d thought, you know. When the building came down around them. When he laid there in the red dark and screamed and nothing screamed back.</p><p>Michael died, at least, whether it was all at once or in slow doses, without having to see, like last time. The explosion, Alex knows because he lives in the tiny space now between a concrete wall and collapsed shelving and the twisted metal of an autopsy table, the explosion would have destroyed whatever sickness lived inside that lab. Didn’t have to see. Didn’t have to hurt, except at the end.</p><p>It’s comfort. It’s cold. Alex was cold, when he pulled a scalpel from his thigh, when he tilted his face toward the tiniest, cruelest whisper of fresh air, keeping him from suffocating long enough to starve to death.</p><p>And he’d imagined, once or twice. Hallucinated. Dreamed. He knows what that’s like. Pain in places that don’t exist anymore, misfiring neurons, conjured images that feel almost real enough to keep you. Realer than reality. He can’t know if he slept at all or only floated in the timeless space you find when you know help isn’t coming, but he knows he heard Michael’s voice at times, murmuring to him, shouting in the distance, but never any words that Alex could make out, or anything that responded in kind to any of his cries. He knows if he drags his fingers through the dirt just so, slow and light enough, it might feel enough like denim stretched over a living thigh. He knows that without light or food or water he waited to die and for once let himself be loved by Michael Guerin and love him in return.</p><p>Alex, he had the training, he curled into a ball when the walls came down, and that was how he stayed when he woke up to find the foot of his prosthesis turned to mechanical gore, and the rest of him unharmed.</p><p>Michael, though, had nothing. And Alex thought—he’d thought—</p><p>He doesn’t care, can’t, if this is some last dying gasp of his heart or his soul or <em>whatever, </em>some other thing he lost belief in. Voiceless, throat gummed and shredded from filthy air and screaming, he reaches out for those outstretched hands. He chokes on agony as he’s pulled from the ground, all cramped up muscles uncoiled at once, a thousand wounds and burns and bruises brought howling back to life, and he chokes on the <em>bolt </em>of electricity that sears through his body—the tidal wave, the <em>Alex, need, thought, alive, you, it’s you, Alex, need, Alex, dead, thought you were, wanted to, nothing, you, thank god, Alex, Alex. </em></p><p>Sobbing, whistling little noises through gritted teeth, Alex <em>throws </em>his arm around Michael’s shoulders, hauls together their filthy, stinking bodies, shoves his face into Michael’s neck, <em>pushes outward on his soul, </em>trying to connect their two torn halves back together to make a whole, to pour the essence of himself into every shattered fragment of Michael’s—</p><p>
  <em>Michael, you, you were dead, you’re, I, it’s me, Michael, you, alive, gone, everything, you’re everything, thank god, Michael, Michael—</em>
</p><p>From somewhere around them, someone shouts—it sounds like Kyle, but all of Alex’s senses are still adjusting, so it’s hard for him to see.</p><p>“Holy shit, you found him—Let me—”</p><p>Then another shout, swearing, as a burst of energy erupts from Michael and sends Kyle flying back several feet. In Alex’s arms, Michael starts to shake, full-body shudders, as his hands paw over every inch of Alex, leaving trails of blood behind everywhere he touches; a new dot runs from his nose, scarlet against the grime on his face.</p><p>Kyle gets to his feet, takes a tentative step forward, then another—the ground shakes underneath them in warning, sending a bolt of terror through Alex, through Michael, which—</p><p>“No, no, nononono,” Michael mumbles, rocking them back and forth, and Alex clings to him, lets himself be clung to, their two battered bodies fused together.</p><p>It’s Michael. His Michael, who just minutes ago was dead. In a million pieces, or in just one, head caved in, heart stopped. Whatever Kyle wants can wait. Can’t he see it has to wait? Until Alex has memorized every inch of this body, felt every beat of this heart.</p><p>Because minutes ago Michael was dead and Alex was dying and every battle he fought was lost and as dramatic as it sounds to be one man and claim a world of his own that’s ending, he did, and it was.</p><p>And now here they are, together, Michael pulls Alex fully into his lap, Alex grips the back of his neck, digs his nails in like something, anything might try to pull him away. He still can’t talk, but Michael hears him, he reached for him when he pulled him from the earth, and they connected—cosmic—</p><p><em>Alex, </em>Michael is saying, <em>I love you, I should have protected you, should have been faster or better.</em></p><p>And Alex shakes his head, kisses the side of his neck. <em>No, no, I love you, couldn’t have done anything, all I care about is you’re alive, I have you, I love you.</em></p><p>Michael sobs, a huge, wracking sob, that carries Alex along with him even though he’s too dehydrated to shed a tear, so he just dry heaves, sucking air into his chest, trembling hands plucking at Michael’s clothes until he manages to find his face, to cup his cheek and feel those tears run over his fingers, thumb at the corner of his mouth and feel the ragged ends of his hair brush the back of his hand.</p><p>“Michael, please,” Isobel says. “You both need water, medical attention. We don’t want to hurt you!”</p><p>Frantically, Michael shakes his head, tucks in closer against Alex like it’s storming and he’s the only shelter in the entire world. And Alex lets him, cups the back of his head and hides his face against Alex’s neck, heart giving a bruised thump at the scalding sensation of tears falling on his bare skin.</p><p>The haze is clearing, finally, from Alex’s eyes, leaving him blinking like a newborn kitten at their family and friends, in a semicircle feet away from the epicenter of Michael’s grief and pain, radiating out from them in waves. Now it’s Alex’s turn to rock them, as the ringing fades from his ears and the world begins to make sense again. Behind him is the dark hole that almost became his grave. Before him is the sun, just starting to set, turning the desert sky scarlet and gold. And all around him is <em>Michael, </em>still shielding him the only way he knows how, from everything, from anything, fragments of thought still flowing between them, glittering like broken glass.</p><p>“i—chael—” Alex tries out a whisper, gentling his clumsy hands to pet him, stroke the mud and blood from his face.</p><p><em>Alex, </em>Michael responds, in prayer, in litany. <em>Alex, Alex, Alex. </em></p><p>And Alex takes one of those torn hands that are clutching him, puts it over his heart, and pushes, trying to communicate as best he can—and Michael understands, or at least seems to, looks up, even though it puts an inch of space between them, to stare into Alex’s eyes, blinking like he’s shocked Alex is still there every time he opens his eyes again, like every time his eyelids shut Alex might disappear into dust.</p><p><em>We’re safe. You saved me, </em>Alex tells him. He still feels in the response a wave of guilt and denial and awful, grasping neediness to never let Alex go, but the words at least seem to reach him. Make him look around, muscles unlock, make him wipe the blood from his nose.</p><p>Alex beckons Kyle weakly, and this time nothing sends him flying, even though the sound of footsteps makes Michael scramble to throw himself between Alex and a potential threat. He barely relaxes when he sees it’s just Kyle, but Kyle approaches unharmed, to give Alex small sips of water and inform them that Max is starting up the car. That it’s time to go home.</p><p>Worst of his wounds dressed, broken prosthesis beneath the seat, Alex rests in Michael’s arms the whole drive back to civilization, their hearts still beating in time.</p><p> </p>
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